Disclaimer: Own no part of J.R.R. Tolkien's works in here. I'm just filling in a gap.
Holding Fire
I frown, the sweat dripping down my forehead in great beads. The metal smokes with heat, and my hammer sends sparks flying in the air when it strikes against the hot band. My arm grows weary of the constant swing of the hammer, but there is some drive that urges me on, to complete this last task for the day. Only when it is done will I go home, and allow myself to rest. Only then…
It is only here that I feel at peace with myself; strange to find peace among the blazing forge fires. When I came to Aulë's for the first time, I was as shapeless as the metal I have now: raw material, awaiting a smith. The forge has done that to me; it has been my smith, for I now have spirit and strength that I did not have before. While working among the furnaces, I have forged myself as well, into a truer, stronger version of Nerdanel. One who will last and endure, because she knows who she is.
"Nerdanel?"
My father's voice is nearly drowned out by the dull roar of the fires, and I look up, annoyed, after thrusting the strip of mithril into the flames. Inspiration is precious, and rarely comes on strong in me, which is why I loathe disruption.
He stands at the wide stone archway, arms folded casually. A flash of annoyance goes through my veins, and I finally say, "What is it, my lord?"
"I would like you to meet someone, another student here. Fëanor, son of Finwë and Míriel Serindë. He has just arrived here from Tirion."
"Atar--"
One of those cosseted princes?! I would sooner keep company with Námo! Those pampered princes sit in Tirion, waving indulgently to the masses, and refuse work for fear of ruining their hands!
"Lord Finwë's eldest son is a smith, Nerdanel, and your equal in the forge. I would that you treat him as such."
My mouth drops open in shock, and the hammer falls limp at my side. "My equal, Atar? That spoiled prince?! He is--"
"I will have you civil, Nerdanel, no matter the disrespect you choose to show to me. Finwë's son deserves that. Do not disobey me in this."
"DISOBEY?!?!" I shout. "So I am a beast to be ordered about?!? Aye, for I must be polite even to those who scorn me?!"
"I have given warning, Nerdanel. Do not continue this way, else I become angry."
I scowl slightly, saying, "Very well, Atar; I am busy now, so if you would leave me in peace--"
A dark-haired young man steps to the archway beside my father, and I stop in the middle of my sentence. The expression in his fierce eyes is one of fire and blaze, and I have the disconcerting feeling that he heard my every word.
"My daughter, Nerdanel," my father says.
I hesitate, but curtsey anyway, looking (I am sure) absurd bowing in my ash-covered smithy-dress. "Welcome to Aulë's forge," I say shortly. "Now, if you will excuse me--"
My father gives me a furious look, as if to say, Daughter, why cannot you be as proper as the others? Must you behave such even to Finwë's heir?
I lift my chin, sending him nothing but pure defiance. I will choose my own way, and Eru help the one who tries to impede me from doing so. Purposefully, I turn my back on him and return to my mithril. It is now heated to the correct temperature, and I doggedly continue to beat it into the form I want. The metal is taking shape now, leaves unfolding and blossoming under the hammer, a delicate branch emerging from a once amorphous lump.
The water hisses as I lower my creation into it, then setting the tongs aside and wiping my sweaty forehead. Eyes are focused on me, and they are not the familiar eyes of my father.
I turn, glaring at the newcomer, and notice that my father has gone. "What is it you want, my lord?" I ask. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
He laughs, an act that takes some of the intensity from his features. "Are all maidens of the Noldor like this?" he asks. "If you are, you all hide it well from me."
He mocks me!
"I know little of other maidens, my lord," I say, temper rising, "but I am who I am, and will not alter myself on another's caprice."
Nodding, he smiles at me briefly.
"I know, lady," he says. "And I would that you not lose that."
I start, barely noticeably, but a slight tremor runs through my veins. 'Would that I not lose that'? Since when did princes of high stature agree that a daughter could be exactly as she wanted to be? This arrogant Noldor princeling, did he understand the heart of Nerdanel, woman of fire and iron and stone?
Fie! Few have tried, and all have failed to comprehend me.
"Mahtan's daughter is willful and headstrong," they say. "She has a heart of flames that burns any who come near." "Beware the smith's daughter!"
I shake my head, inwardly sneering at this stranger, this spoiled creature from Tirion, dressed in all his finery, and here to learn the crafts of the forge. And I must keep company with this highest of princes, whose family scorns me for my ways? I, Nerdanel, the smith's daughter!
Glancing over at the prince himself, I see him familiarly pick up the hammer and tongs, and select a wide strip of gold from a counter littered with mediums.
Perhaps not so unlearned.
I stare at him a few moments longer, until he looks up and meets my gaze. The fire there is equal to my own, if not stronger, and I am almost shaken by its sheer force.
Here is a spirit that could match hers… Here is one who could meet her will with his own… He could equal her passion with his…
He could hold the heart of the smith's daughter without being burned…
…but can I hold his?
~*~
Thank you for taking the time to read this. I adore Nerdanel, and her first meeting with Fëanor seemed to nag at me until I wrote this out. Please read and review this (it's a one-shot vignette, but I love reviews, especially ones with constructive criticism)!
Much thanks to Glorfindel's Girl for editing and giving advice on this one.
More vignettes will be coming! To be posted separately from this one.
~Elanial